


Chip away

by Kasan_Soulblade



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Bullying, Child Neglect, Dark fic, Other, Transformative piece, rank may go up, slow change, trigger heavy in later chapters, unhealthy domestic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:30:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasan_Soulblade/pseuds/Kasan_Soulblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To chip away, break down, slowly, surly. Enough damage and even the sturdiest foundation can crumble.</p><p>How it falls though, falls to chance.</p><p>An experimental TF fic, ranking will go up in later chapters, tags will be updated then, summary to be updated at a later time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chip away

Chapter 1

 

The dreams were harder to shake. She woke feeling achy and sweaty and wrong. Her stomach was killing her, as was half her face, but they’d pulled no punches, hence the pain. The sweats were from fear, familiar old and anticipatory new, only the steady one two rumble in her ear (well neck) kept her from haring off into the dark.

The thick tail wound about her middle helped too.

“Sleep walking” her folks would have called it. One reason she lived in the cupboard under the-

Well, she didn’t live there. That place was taken. Rather she’d been given the vacancy among old odd and ends no one wanted, the cellar wasn’t quite as dismal as a certain literary hero’s abode, but it certainly dark as it only had one light up high and that was off more often than not. Thinking of certain heroes, she hated to admit it, but she felt if she lived in the cupboard she might have been better off. Maybe better liked.

People were weird like that.

Instead because she lived in the basement she dealt with all the stereotypical basement dweller stigmas that were attached to the title. Her night terrors were source less, (they did have a source but none believed her, or rather none believed her who mattered) and for the sake of everyone else’s sleep she was secreted away about as soon as it had been dubbed age inappropriate to be sleeping in mom and dad’s bed. She’d managed to hold a little longer then expected, until her sister had banned her from coming back ever again –and meant it, making it all the more bitter because the bruises hadn’t even been hidden then- she hadn’t argued, just accepted her new abode and commandeered cast offs making her home under their home.

It also had been the beginning of her mental segregation, of her and them.

Still, even after being moved, she hadn’t been sleeping. Thus she’d temporized. And though dangerous the not being able to sleep had been too much and the dark had been too close and the weariness even closer. So she’d called, and to her call her blue Nidoran female had popped onto the bed and kept her company.

Happy to have someone, anyone, to hold, she’d learned the spines by touch, learned then relearned through two evolutions. At the last change, when ground had added to gravity she’d taken the bed from frame and added more cushions to make up for the lowness.

Her parents had protested of course. It wasn’t seemly, Nidorans were animals, and poisonous ones at that, but it’d been a mild fuss and most of the complaints had been towards the state of the sheets more than fear of her getting ill.

They’d thought her pokemon possessed the nature where its poisons saturated the mind making jealousy and vengeance more predominant, never mind the creature’s nearly omnipresent sunny deposition. The idea that their daughter’s preferred pet turned its venom outward in an excess that seeped from the spines when irritated had never crossed their minds.

Or perhaps it had. She didn’t try for subtle, never had. But it never seemed to catch their attention that the water bill went up by quite a bit when the bruises were at their worse, or that there were a number of rags that kept being added to the regular loads, or the fact that the old out of date washer and dryer downstairs was occasionally plugged in and used at odd hours. After all she wasn’t the only one to nightmare, and poison needles were messy mucky affairs for young Nidos.

On good days she figured they had noticed, and weren’t responding for whatever reasons seemed more important to them at the time.

During bad days she felt more a ghost than a person, wondered if she was real, and tried not to wonder too hard about it all.

That was where the wrong lay, where it festered in her dreams and shook her when she woke bad side about.

Trying not to shake

-yet shake off that feeling, that creepy clingy feeling of _wrong_ -

least she wake up ‘Queen again.

Turning her head, curling just so (as much as that binding tail would allow) trainer snuggled against stony skin, partaking a bouquet of venoms –like smog and spice and sweet, an incense sans flame- and told that sense of wrong to take a walk.

Because she was safe and home and not alone.

And that was all you could ask for because in the end there was nothing else.


End file.
